Once Upon a Time In Arendelle
by Seramimi
Summary: Prohibition!AU. Elsanna. Daughters of a former South Side Outfit head, Elsa minds a Chicago speakeasy while Anna aspires to make it big as a singer. Relationships fray as the gang wars and Prohibition intensify, and the two struggle to reconcile themselves with each other in the midst of a city in flames. TW: Violence, Blood, Death, Alcohol.


Hi all. I can be found at seramimi on tumblr for comments etc.  
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The pen-tip scratched thinly across the page. A delicate trail of black ink marked its path, spelling out neat numbers in carefully printed script. Salted pork - 7 pounds - 12 dollars, even. Rye bread - 5 loaves - 2 dollars, 70 pence. The left hand wrote, and the right hand held a sheaf of receipts and papers that rustled quietly when the girl leafed through them. They smelled faintly of dried whiskey.

The room's single bulb flickered, struggling to keep back the dark with its faded yellow light. She sat directly beneath it, chair pulled as close to the table as it would go to save room in the compact, crowded office. Across from her was a tall bookshelf, the top shelf nearly full with a row of completed ledges. A single thick, suede-bound book served as a bookend. The edges of the binding were worn thin. The rest was neatly filled with twine-bound newspapers, the oldest of which was long since yellowed and cracked. Behind her, a single window opened out to Chicago's early August night. By now, the day's warmth had burned low: the breeze stirred the room's dust and carried the crisp dampness of night, the sour must of burning cigars, and the humming sound of passing automobiles.

Her slipper tapped tunelessly on the flat wool rug under the table. The weave was matted down and worn thin under her feet, and even the aged varnish of the hardwood floor was clouded white with wear. Sharp blue eyes flicked left and right behind round, wire-rimmed reading spectacles. She pushed a few errant strands of silver hair out of her eyes and kept the hand to her forehead thoughtfully for a moment. She corrected a number.

The pen scratched, out of ink.

Elsa looked at it with a frown. Her ink pot had run out last time she had filled it, but the pharmacy had been out of stock since last week. She gave it a hard shake and tore the corner off of a sheet, writing a short reminder with the last of the ink before folding it into a neat square. She leaned her chair onto its back legs and reached for her shoes, tucking the folded scrap inside. There. The chair tipped back forward, and she stood up, arms lifted to stretch her back.

_ TKTKTKTKTKTTKKHHT!_

The pen clattered to the ground, and so did Elsa, crashing into the table and chair in her panic. She squeezed herself into the corner of the room and covered her head. She knew that sound. Everyone knew that sound these days. Forty-five Thompson, Tommy gun, Chicago Typewriter; whatever you called it, it was the sound of someone's forced exit from the stage. Elsa whimpered.

A moment passed in still silence. The pounding in her chest gradually slowed. Balled on the ground, she waited, but it seemed like it was over. She forced her breathing to slow down and took in the chilly night air. The cold helped her find her senses. The panicked heat fading now, she managed to sit up with her hands on her knees. A dull pain throbbed in her hip where she had hit the table, no longer masked by adrenaline. A bead of sweat dripped to the floor. Another long moment passed before she pulled her handkerchief out of her breast pocket and wiped it up. She folded it over once, and pressed it to her forehead - it came away drenched.

"_Che cazzo_, Elsa," she muttered. "What the hell are you doing?" She pushed herself off the ground and stood up fully, and used her foot to right her chair and slide it back under the desk. The papers she had been working on had all scattered off of the table. She picked them and gently tapped them to straighten them out before setting them down face-over. Even if she had a pen, no way she'd be able to focus after that. The back of her neck was still hot and damp to the touch, stray hairs sticking to her skin.

"Maybe… maybe a drink." The door creaked open at her touch, and she pressed the light button outside before pulling on the chain in the office. The stairs down to the bar squeaked with each step. The wide room had all the features of the lounge it was originally meant to be - a low stage at the far corner, complete with a derelict old piano and a microphone stand, and a number of round tables scattered around the room, with maybe three or four chairs apiece. A polished, mahogany bar, smooth from years of waxing, accompanied by a row of padded stools, ran along the wall. A crank phonograph sat at one end, brass horn gleaming in the electric light. Since the Volstead Act, the shelves behind the bar had been cleared of liquor and replaced instead with glass bottles of Coca-Cola, seltzer, and tonic. Elsa brushed a little of the dust off of them as she passed by, sending up a spiral of bright debris.

Most of the bootlegged drink in the building was stored in a secret cellar. The entrance was hidden behind the office staircase, accessible through the tiny kitchen behind the bar. This one, though, was special, and lived in a hidden cabinet. It was behind a panel hinged on the inside, that opened only by hooking a finger through a knot in the wood. Elsa grabbed the bottle of Wiser's by the neck and scooped up two tumblers between her fingers from the shelf. It wasn't nearly as dusty as the rest of the bar - maybe she'd been relying on it a little much. Her free hand opened the ice drawer and found a cold whiskey stone that went into the glass.

She sat heavily at the end stool, sighing before popping the cork and filling her snifter. The other one stayed empty. It smelled of wood and cinnamon, faintly of anise, and the comforting warmth of strong alcohol. Wiser's De Luxe - a common brand of whiskey in Canada, produced in Ontario. Her mother's poison of choice. Too precious, nowadays, for her to sell, thanks to the North Side Gang's hold on most of Chicago's waterfront.

She swirled the glass gently, looking down. The blue of her eyes reflected in the ripples of amber liquor. "Twelve years now, Elsa." She sipped. Gentle warmth filled her throat, and quickly spread through her chest and stomach. It was a soothing warm, without the sharp burn of cheaper alcohol. She sighed again.

"Twelve years. And you still cry like you did back then." She put her head in her hands and massaged her temples. "You afraid, Elsa?" She paused for a long moment, hands on her forehead and looking straight down blankly. "It's alright to be afraid. But don't let her know. Don't be enough of a damned fool to let her know."

Yeah. Anna couldn't know. Her throat burned, but it wasn't from the drink. Keep a safe, stable home for her. Pappa always said, "a real good time don't ever last." Set her onto a safe path on the right side of the law. Uncle Pabbie had respected his wishes. Had her sent her off to a reputable boarding school in Pennsylvania.

_ Just like that one where Pappa met Al_, she added bitterly in her mind. _That one worked out so well._ But Uncle Pabbie meant well. It was the right choice. Even not related by blood, he had been the only family that they had had growing up after losing Mamma and Pappa. He'd also been the one to give Elsa her foul Italian mouth. The only good to have come out of the damned Outfit - he was probably the only one in the whole organization who gave a real damn about her parents. He had been the first one there that night, at least.

Elsa pressed the glass to her forehead. The stone slid and clinked the side of the glass quietly, and its coldness calmed her down just a little while the memories crept in. Pappa had been invited to the opening of the Chicago Renaissance Hotel. He was the head of the South Side Outfit in those days. A Norwegian in charge of the Outfit. Plenty of people didn't like that. It was the middle of summer. Pabbie said it was unusually close to the border between the gangs, but Pappa had gone anyway. She was only nine at the time. It had been the second time she'd been out with her parents on business. Anna, still too young, had stayed with Pabbie.

Most of the night was a blur. There were a lot of faces, a lot of noises. Everyone had been eager to dote on her, but the night was long - she fell asleep in the hotel lobby, on a couch. Vaguely, she recalled Pappa lifting her up and carrying her to the car. Mamma's lap was warm and smelled of her lilac perfume. Her dress was soft. It was the one with a crocus print, in deep blue and plum violet. The car hummed; the vibration was soothing. Pappa stroked her cheek and brushed her hair out of her face. Mamma spoke to him quietly, and they shared a little laugh.

_ TKTKTKTKTKTTKKHHT!_

The car slammed to a stop. She fell from her mother's lap and hit her head hard on the back of the driver's seat before tumbling into the foot space. Something hot dripped onto her. Wet. Pain lanced through her skull. Elsa began to cry. "Mamma! Pappa!" Pappa yelled out, and called out for Elsa. For Mamma.

Gunfire answered. Pappa didn't speak again.

For a while the only sounds were her sobs and the thrum of the car engine. Voices came from outside. The car door slammed open. They smelled strongly of smoke, but not like the nice cigars that Pappa would cut after dinner. This smoke burned.

"There's a kid in here. Gimme the gun. Bastard's not gonna miss his girl for long down in hell."  
"Leave her, Donny. Don't be a sicko."  
"Hey, Dean said-"  
"T'hell with what Dean said. I'd pop anyone for the gang but I couldn't sleep again with a ten year old on my conscience. Get."

The car puttered idly. The night was warm. She didn't feel the pain anymore, just fear. Slowly, the heaving sobs slowed. Elsa lifted her hands from the back of her head. Her fingers were stuck together.

"Mamma? Pappa?" She looked up.

"Damnit!" The glass slammed onto the bartop with a solid _thunk!_ She let it get away from her. She let herself live it again. Elsa glared down into the cup, but the whiskey paid her no mind. _I'm done with that. I'm done. Stop it Elsa._

_ The funeral was closed casket._ She cranked the shaft of the phonograph and threw the needle at the record. Anything to make it stop. Music to soothe the soul. Burn those emotions out. Anything.

It scratched, and it took a moment for the tune to become recognizable.

_ Sometimes I wonder why I spend  
__ The lonely night dreaming of a song  
__ The melody haunts my reverie  
__ And I am once again with you_

Stardust. Carmichael. Elsa let out a long, shuddering sigh. A couple of notes skipped from the scratches in the record. Music was nice. Calming. Bless the phonograph. Space for new thoughts. It reminded her of Anna, as far away as she was now. How was she getting along? Making friends? She had been close to that German girl for a while now. Just friends? Something in her chest tightened. _Maybe more?_

_ Though I dream in vain  
__ In my heart it will remain  
__ My stardust melody  
__ The memory of love's refrain_

Elsa laid her head down on the bartop and sighed heavily, head turned to stare at the glass. Amber, like her hair in the sun. Speckled, like her cheeks when she smiled. Oh, Anna.

"_Che cazzo_," she murmured, and finished her drink.


End file.
